


alias & echo

by Calamitatum



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it's Hank y'all what do you expect, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Memory Loss, Rotating POV, Violence, android body horror, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16034315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calamitatum/pseuds/Calamitatum
Summary: Searing pain, white-hot and blinding, screams across his skin. The taste of thirium is thick against his tongue, matted in his hair and leaking out between the wire mesh at the back of his skull, pooling in his throat and behind his eyes.If it were in his programming to do so, he would smile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote another thing for this big dumb video game I haven't even played

Tues 05/17/2039   19:51:42 -0400

RK800 #313 248 317 - 52

BIOS 9.2 Revision 7302

Re-Initializing Systems...

Loading OS…

System Initialization...

Checking Biocomponents...

Initialization Biosensors…

Initializing AI Engine…

Memory Status…

Warning: Memory_Corruption_Detected_

Searing pain, white-hot and blinding, screams across his skin. The taste of thirium is thick against his tongue, matted in his hair and leaking out between the wire mesh at the back of his skull, pooling in his throat and behind his eyes.

War͠n͞i̡ng̕: B̡iǫco͏m̢pon͡e̴nt_̵3͟432a_̛D̶ama̕ged̷

W̧arn͏in͞g: B̴ioco̷m͡pone̶nt_͜ 6̡15b_̛Dąmaged

Wa̶rn͠įng͡:̛ Bio͡c̶o҉m͏po҉nen̨t_7҉11͜8̷b_Mįs͠si͡ng

W̦̻̪̞̞a̼͉̰̮r̗̞͎̠n̟͚̬̗̬͉͢i̞̲͖͘n̙̱̲̗g̨̼͉̜:̴̲̠̩͕̝̙ ̥̭͍͠T͎r̹̳͔̮̞̮a̜͙u̟̻̞͖̩ͅmḁt͞i̗̖c_̛̼̗͈̤̲͓D͔͟a͏̺̭̺͎̞̗̻m̲͍͖̟̖̕ḁ̭͕͍̺̬͖ge̼̹̼_D̲̞͇̗̱e͕̞͓͖͟t̥̺̺̦e̶c҉͚t͍̲͓̩͡e̻͚͈̠̗͚̗d

W͞ar͟nin͡g:͝ E͝RR͠ƠR̸

W̷̗͍͕͕̥̠͙a̮̝̣̺̕_̵̥̰̱̘͉n͍͠i̩̙̗̤̮̰̤i͘-̴̘̫̮̩͖g̱͙͘:̦̼̣͉͡ ̳͜E͉̖̻̠R̦͍̦̖̳Ŗ̺O̗̰R͘

͚͍̰̗͙Wa̻͚͉̲r͙̖͇̗n̞͎ͅ7͓̺͕͓̘̝̺n͓̟͉̯͎͍̹g̖̖̬̖̲͎:̙̲̝̺͚:̫̗͖̻̗ ̗ͅE̮͇͍R͔̣͎̠̗ͅR̩͍̼O̰͉͈̣͖̬̬R̬

̟̗̳̬̹ͅͅW̻a̯_̱̘ṇ̘̹i̖̖͕ị̹-͕̦̹̻̰g̥̥̤̜:̮̠̼̰̗̲ ̯̹̗E̘͔R̳̥̻ͅͅR͙̙O͇͕͎R

̠͎Wk̦͙͈6͎͚̻͎͈6̱i̙n̝̖̰͓͕̘̖g̬̯: ̣

-̜̺̹-̪̻̱̠̘̲̖͠

̺  
̛͈̟͚.̖̲̤̙̱̜.̡

̯̺͘.̖̻̮̙ͅͅ

enumerate: 996e03b949aea176238e3c7a8452700bbb987ac9  
Last login: Wed 05/18/2039   19:50:12  
Forced Shutdown Detected Warning: Memory_Corruption_Detected_  
Total Physical Memory:     262,144 GB  
Available Physical Memory: 151,256 GB  
Virtual Memory: Max Size:  654,614 GB  
Virtual Memory: Available: 495,512 GB  
Virtual Memory: In Use:    8,948 MB  
“Download last save? (y/N)”  
Initializing backup drives...  
error: Could_not_read 984c11abfc9c2839b386f29c574d9e03383fa589  
fatal: Download_failed  
fatal: Memory_files_corrupted  
235ae1f48701d577d71ebd430344a159e5ba4881  
rm -rf .cyberlife  
xrx init  
xrx add .  
git commit -m 'Re-initialize repository without STATE ax44456518.'  
xrx submodule update -- ERROR_Could_not_read  
echo  
echo "This operation will reset the local 646212h6r6778h:"  
echo "dd4fh6998na828747t9359000f}"  
echo  
echo "This will completely rewrite the local 646212h6r6778h,"  
echo "but will leave directory intact"  
echo -n "Are you sure? (y/N):”  
RK800 #313 248 317 - 52 / ~  
ls - lsa  
Total 99999768  
4 drwx ------ 5  
0 -rw--------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800      4096  
is -lsa total 92768  
4 drwx------- 5 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800     4096 Aug 18 2038..  
20567 -wrx-------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800  
134 drwxr-xr-x 13 #313 248 317 - 51 / root  
12 ------------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / CyberLife  
4 -rw-r--r----- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800  
0 ------------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / CyberLife  
0 ---r--r----- #313 248 317 - 52#313 248 317 - 52  
0 -rw  1 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800 23736 -rw-rw-r 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / CyberLife - 5221424 -rw-r--r 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800 - 5223704 ----------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800 4 drwxrw  3 #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800 - 524 -------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / CyberLife- 524 drwx 2 #313 248 317 - 52 5223836 --------- 1 #313 248 317 - 52 / CyberLife - 524 drwxr-xr-x 2 8 317 - 52 / RK800 - 524 -rw-rw-r  #313 248 317 - 52 / RK800 1 — 1 #313 248 317 - 52 S. ' I 9322 Dec 10 2038 13:54 .repo_info 14 Dec 19 2038 .vimrc 4096 Jan 11 2039 07:28 . 4096 Dec 14 2038 .. 10289 Jan 14 2038 16:09 .sys_history 88 Dec 18 2038 .sys_logout 177 Nov 29 2038 .sys_profile 125 Nov 27 2038 .sysrc 3457 Feb 11 2039 07:28 .mysql_history 24301769 Aug 27 2038 10:52 contact_management_system-08-27.sq1 21934983 Aug 27 2038 12:15 rk800-finale_8_17_2018.sql 24270974 Aug 27 08:19 sys_analysis_2038-08-27.sq1 4096 Feb 15 2039 .pki 640 Aug 27 08:11 .profile 4096 Aug 27 2038 .ssh 24407823 May 7 2039 12:06 execution_interrupted 2038_2038-09-07.sql 4096 Dec 14 2038 _backup 9322 Feb 10 2039 13:54 .viminfo 14 Dec 19 2017 .vimrc Pec P:rn sys reset --mixed sys fsc-- 55h754d899 sql --full sys gc --auto sys prune --expire now sys reflog --all  
RK800 #313 248 317 - 52  
BIOS 9.2 Revision 7302  
Re-Initializing Systems...  
Warning: Memory_Corruption_Detected_  
Please contact CyberLife for immediate assistance.

Strings of code pour across his vision, roaring like fire, flickering and senseless and _loud._

“...down, Officer 800 is down, for fuck’s sake.” A sound, a voice, permeates the rush, tinny and distant but distinct enough to cling to, foreign and aching with familiarity, fingers twitching when it cuts out to static static static, as though he could somehow pull it back.

And miraculously, he _does,_ the sounds around him pouring back in like the rush of icy water. “... _can’t,_ damnit. He isn’t moving. I need evac _now--_ ”

His LED cycles on red, fingers still twitching as the lenses that act as his iris focus and refocus. Images snap to clarity only to blur again - a dark ceiling, sleet-gray and concrete, flickering lights and a deeply-lined face, eyes icy blue and grim as they peer down at him from above.

“--nor, god damnit. You with me? Can you hear me?”

The voice is speaking again, closer now, and yet he’s having an even harder time focusing on it. The thirium is starting to leak from his ears.

His eyes finally find focus, systems slowing in some deep-rooted, futile act to follow procedure, turning the world yet more gray still as an overlay sluggishly flashes to life in his visual field. The analysis traces the angle of the dust that rains down from the ceiling, the crack of gunfire from some 12.5 yards away. It tells him the model of the rifle responsible for the empty casings on the floor beside him and where within a 10-mile radius said model can be bought, then does the same for the yet more pressing 5.56mm caliber bullet still lodged in the back of his skull. Finally, it settles on the thirum that coats the hands that reach down to stroke at his cheek. _His_ thirum, the analysis helpfully informs. The man’s hands are covered in his blood.

“Come on, son. Stay with me.”

 _Stay with me._ He finds this funny. A glitch in his code, an upwards tick of software instability, alerts him that no such thing should be possible. But it is, isn’t it? _Stay with me._ Like he could go _anywhere_ right now.

Still, his analysis trudges on, through the software instability and the echo of the gunshots that have now finally fallen silent and the exhausting, lulling pull of imminent shutdown as his thirum supplies dwindle now to 35%. A facial recognition scan stutters across the man’s face, ever faithful, and a small box of text appears in the corner of his visual field.

Lieutenant Hank Anderson, Detroit City Police Department. Age 53, 6.2 ft, 209 lbs. Heart rate at 135 b/m. Currently in shock.

Recognition settles in like a sigh. If it were in his programming to do so, he thinks he would smile. He’s accomplished his mission. He’s found Lieutenant Anderson.

A warning flashes in red-hot panic, indicating his thirium supplies have reached critical levels, but as the world around him returns to colour for one dying instant, Connor dismisses it. He’s got a mission to accomplish, after all.

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one (1) philosophical concept I want to explore and zero (0) idea how robots work
> 
> Also, disclaimer: I’ve read exactly no RK900 fics so idk how y’all are used to him being characterized but here’s this

Connor looks dead.

They pull him out of the back of the ambulance on a stretcher. There’s some kind of brace up around his head – a claw-looking thing, all wires and drip tubes, slick with blue blood, a screen on the side spitting out numbers and two prongs down the center to hold his—parts, in place.

Two technicians wheel him off, and another emerges a few seconds later. She’s holding his eye – the one that fell right out of his head. She’s holding it in her _bare_ hand.

The paramedics who dragged Cole away had been wearing gloves.

Of all the wires, all the electrical equipment, all the tacky wet blue still staining Hank’s hands, it’s _this_ that gets him. This tiny, inconsequential thing. It’s this that slaps its hands around his face, shatters the numbness of shock, covers his eyes from the sight of the technicians wheeling Connor off into some gray-chrome room, blocks his ears from the litany of _Connor looks dead dead dead_ and screams over it, _It’s not gonna happen again._

It’s not the same. It’s _not._ This is _Connor –_ an android. He’s got—backup drives, or whatever. He’s got replaceable parts. He’s got a _chance._ This is Connor, _not_ Cole.

Connor had been trying to tell him something, back in the warehouse, before he’d stopped moving at all, but it had been all distorted. Hank remembers his panic—furious, blind. Remembers thinking it was goodbye, that Connor was trying to say goodbye. Cole had been clinging to him when his heart first stopped, screaming, sobbing— _Daddy, Daddy, please, it hurts—_ but then they took him away, brought him back only to die a second time, alone on that operating table. Cole didn’t get to say goodbye.

Hank knows he’s let this story slip in one drunken haze or another, let it bleed out of him. He knows Connor’s seen him break down over it, seen the way it eats him alive – not having been at Cole’s side when he passed. Not having gotten to say goodbye.

Was that what Connor had been trying to say? To spare him from having to live without it again?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. _It’s not gonna happen again._

And if it does, well. The goodbye won’t much matter then either. He _won’t_ live with it. He won’t let himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The shock is starting to wear off.

Hank’s been in the waiting room for over four hours now. There’s an empty coffee cup for each hour—black, no sugar—on the chair beside him. In his hands, he nurses a fifth – long ago sapped of any warmth. His eyes are dry, red and sore, twitching in time with that damn light in the corner of the room that starting flickering somewhere around hour two. He stares into the Styrofoam, tries and fails to ignore it, but he’s only human here and Jesus _fuck_ that thing’s annoying.

Yep. Shock’s definitely wearing off.

In its place is something familiar, arguably worse – anger. Because, apparently, when your brain’s fucked from years of depression, it sticks to the basics. Scared? Get angry about it. Just seen your partner get his brains strewn across the floor of some warehouse? Anger time. Going on five hours in a waiting room after said brain-strewing with no end in sight and a light in your face that won’t _stop fucking flickering?_ You guessed it: inconsolable rage.

He didn’t use to mind it; anger is worse than numbness, sure, but better than sadness by _miles._ Recently though, it makes him—well, angry. A dick. He’s said some things to Connor, over the past few months living together. Some real shitty things. The kid always sticks around anyway—god knows what the hell he sees in Hank’s grouchy old ass that ever made him want to—but Hank’s not complaining. Sorry, though, he _is._ He should probably say it more. No—definitely. He makes a silent vow to start, if—fuck, shit­ _—when_ Connor’s back up and running.

For now, anger.

It sucks _especially_ because he’s got no one to _direct_ it at right now. Technicians have been running in and out of Connor’s operation room all night, and, for the most part, completely ignoring him. He knows they’re busy, knows he would just get in the way if he were back there anyway. He just wishes—fuck, he doesn’t know. Wishes they would _tell_ him something. Not that he’d understand a damn word of it, probably. Connor’s been trying to teach him all sorts of technical jargon for months, like all the names for the different bits of himself. He keeps trying to convince Hank to help him with his monthly self-cleaning, always needs a hand with the plating he can’t reach.

Hank’s always too nervous to agree. The kid shouldn’t trust him with something so—so _delicate._ He’s all wires and goo on the inside. And as tonight’s shitshow has clearly proven, even his _outside_ clearly ain’t as invincible as it says in all the ads. But besides even all that, Hank’s an old geezer – he’s never been good with technology. He always cracks his phone within a few weeks of buying a new one. He’s never been careful—god, if only he’d been more _careful._

Here it comes. The aimless anger has found itself a target – himself. It always does, in the end. He _deserves_ it, fuck. He _should_ have been more careful. He should have made Connor stay closer, shouldn’t have let him go up on that footbridge, should have had a sharper eye, seen the perp coming up behind him, had a better aim, taken him down before he’d gotten to Connor. Fuck, he should’ve never taken Connor on that stupid fucking drug-bust to begin with. He _knows_ how dangerous those things can be, but he’s gotten sloppy since re-joining the task force. Those motherfuckers must have known they were coming; they were too damn prepared. Which means Hank fucked something else up to, somewhere along the way. Some end he didn’t wrap up, some piece of intel he let slip, somewhere he wasn’t cautious enough, wasn’t _good_ enough. Another tick to add to his long, long, list of fuck-ups.

Hank has to put the coffee down at this point or risk dropping it. Faint tremors start up in his hands, the kind that make him miss the tang of nicotine – a vice he hasn’t slipped into since his college days. He fists them in his hair, drags his head down over his knees. He must look like a fucking _wreck,_ breaths hard and ragged enough they can probably be heard out in the hall. The click of shoes against the tile warn of approach, but when a voice speaks, it’s not a technician nurse like he was expecting.

“Lieutenant Anderson.”

Niles stands before him. He’s still in his uniform, Kevlar and all, and still wearing that same cool, placid non-expression he always does. Hank hasn’t seen him since before the raid started. He was out of there too fast to even ask what happened to the guy—or hell, to anyone else. He doesn’t even look scuffed up, the bastard.

Still, Hank straightens up. _Shit._ He’s going to have to tell him, isn’t he. Tell him what happened. Tell him about Connor. They’re not brothers—not really—but. Something like it. Enough that it’ll hurt. Hank readies to deal the blow as softly as he can.

“Your presence is requested back at the station.”

Hank—freezes. The flickering light swims through the room. Or maybe he’s actually going crazy now. He rubs his eyes, hard. “Say again?”

“Your presence is requested back at the station,” Niles repeats. And then, “Urgently.”

Okay, so. Fuck softening, apparently. “Connor got shot in the back of the head. Blew it wide fuckin’ open. I saw the whole thing happen, right in front of me,” Hank says, numb. “So, uh. Your _urgent request_ can go fuck itself.”

Niles’s frown is a flicker of a thing. “Ah. You haven’t been told.”

“Told?” His chest goes cold and tight. “Told what?”

“Connor is fine.”

Something inside him collapses. Hank hears himself make a noise, low in the back of his throat, almost a whine. He hangs his head, presses the palms into his eyes – an aborted attempt to hide their dampness. It’s probably a bit of an overreaction – considering the good news and all. Too emotional, too—human. He’d be embarrassed, if he weren’t so _relieved._

If Niles is unnerved by the display, he doesn’t show it. “He’s still offline,” he continues. “But his system dependencies are all functional. His technicians are now waiting for the delivery of the necessary replacements.”

“Replacements?” Hank asks. “Like, um. Hardware?”

The corners of Niles’s eyes crinkle, like he’s almost endeared to watch him try. “Yes, Lieutenant. The replacements for his damaged hardware.”

“Oh,” Hank says, a little dazed. He stares down at the coffee between his feet like he’d forgotten it was there. Christ, he needs another one of those. And a scotch. “Can I… see him?”

There’s a pause. “He’s still offline.”

“Okay?”

Niles re-phrases. “His AI is functional, but his body is not. This experience can be very traumatic for some. He’s been put into stasis to prevent it from causing him any distress.”

“So, he’s—asleep?”

That crinkle again. “He’s asleep.”

Connor’s asleep. He’s _okay_. His body’s not—working, yet. But he’s okay. Or, he will be.

Hank breathes, feels his eyes slip closed. Connor’s okay. They can deal with the rest. He can deal with the rest.

“Now, Lieutenant. If you’ll come with me—”

His eyes snap open. “Whoa, what?”

“Your presence continues to be requested by our superiors at the station.” Niles says, nonplused. “You’ve yet to give your report or be debriefed, which, I’ll remind you, is a severe breach of regulations.”

“You’re really gonna pull that shit now?”

“I’m not _pulling_ anything, Lieutenant. You were ignoring your radio, so I was sent to collect you. I’m simply doing my job.”

 _Christ._ Insensitive prick. Hank doesn’t know how Reed can stand the guy. Even on a good day, he finds it hard to believe Niles awoke to deviancy before ever even being a machine. He sure as hell sounds like one, sometimes.

Niles must read some of this in his expression. He gives one of those little half-sighs androids like to do, pitches his voice all low and soothing. “Connor’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Hank snaps. “And neither am I.” _This experience can be very traumatic for some_. No kidding. The kid got his fucking _brain_ blow open. “I’m not letting him wake up here all alone.”

“Ah.”

That noise again. Hank nearly groans. What _else_ hasn’t he been told?

“The replacements may take up to three days to arrive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not pictured: me, shaking a magic 8 ball to figure out how to end this scene


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do the kids these days still think short chapters are cool?

Three days, it turns out, is a long fucking time.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Hank says, not even twenty-four hours in. “There’s a CyberLife plant, like, 4 blocks from here. Give me a list and I could pick it up on my fucking _lunchbreak._ ”

“Would you quit bitching?” Reed drawls, draped over his chair. Mud-caked boots tap together where they’re crossed atop his desk. He gets Niles to file all his shit these days, the bastard. He’s not even _pretending_ to look busy.

“CyberLife’s been facing a severe backlog of orders since the revolution. They’ve lost over four-thousand employees and been forced to back out of deals with two of their main outsourcing partners.” Niles slides Reed’s boots off the desk with a single finger, ignoring the pointed glare shot his way in response. “Comparatively speaking, Lieutenant, a three-day wait isn’t bad.”

Hank bites back whatever snappy retort had been rising to his tongue. Niles might be a cold-blooded prick, but he’s trying to help. Not that he’s actually helping _at all,_ but, well. Between the two of them, Connor’s usually better at the whole _shoulder-to-lean-on_ spiel. Niles’s _facts and figures_ form of sympathy sometimes feels more like a slap, sure, but at least you know it’s coming from a good place.

“Admit it, you’re just mad you have to type everything up manually ‘til your tin can gets back.”

Reed, on the other hand – he’s just an asshole.

Hank’s pen smacks his face with nothing short of android-like precision. If Connor were here, he’d be damn proud.

“Ow! What the fuck, Anderson?” Reed turns an indignant glare when Niles covers with mouth with a huff. “Was that a laugh? Are you laughing at me?”

“Of course not, Detective. It was obviously a sneeze.”

The lie earns Niles a pen in his own direction, easily dodged.

“Whose side are you on, asshole?”

Hank turns away before things escalate. Even as he shrugs on his headphones to tune them out, he finds he’s fighting a smile. Niles and Reed bicker like the worst of them, but he has to admit, they make a damn good team on the field. Almost—Almost as good as him and Connor.

Hank sighs.

Yeah. Three days is a long _fucking_ time.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere near the forty-hour mark, Hank plans a visit.

Niles quietly urges him to reconsider. Hank loudly tells him to go fuck himself.

The technician nurse eyes him for a long time before she lets him around to the back of the clinic. He’s about the only human in whole joint. Once given the option, it seemed androids only trusted other androids to perform their life-or-death operations. Hank doesn’t blame them – lots of bad experiences, lots of ugly memories to go around. Even now, the politics are pretty tense – seems there is a spike in hate crimes with every damn scrap of pro-android legislation they manage to get passed. Humanity’s always been a stubborn son of a bitch.

Either way, their discomfort shows. Their faces go shuttered and blank, they give him a wide berth as he walks the clinic halls. No one meets his eye – not even the nurse.

She brings him to—to what looks like a fucking _morgue,_ for Christ’s sake. Hank doesn’t know what he was expecting. A sickbay? A mechanic’s bench? But the nurse unlocks a unit in the wall like she’s about to ask him to identity a fucking corpse. Except what slides out sure as fuck doesn’t look like any corpse Hank’s ever seen.

It takes. A long time. To reconcile the sight with the thought of Connor.

He. He just looks like—a _thing._

He’s sheet-white and hairless, paneling exposed. He’s on his side, still wearing the brace from the ambulance, but Hank can see the back of his head now. It’s _open_. Mesh and wire, dancing little lights on circuit boards all lit up red. Hank pulls his attention away, tries to focus on the face instead, to see _something_ of Connor there. His eyes are open—sightless, blank. He’s got his missing eye back though, so. That’s—something.

Hank thinks he’s going to be sick.

 _Fuck._ Niles was right.

 

* * *

 

That night, his fingers twitch so bad he imagines curling them around the neck of bottle just to still them. He chokes back three Ambien instead, locks the bedroom door, and doesn’t let himself dream of Cole on that same cold metal slab.

 

* * *

 

The email comes on hour sixty-three.

Hank’s on his lunch break when he feels the phone buzz. He barely pauses to wipe greasy fingers on the thighs of his pants before tearing it from his pocket.

_Apologies from your friends at CyberLife! Due to an influx of orders, your purchase may take 2-5 more business days to ship. Click here to receive 10% off your next purchase._

Hank stares at the screen until it falls dark, half a burger left and no appetite. Lunch break ends. Sixty-four hours, and Hank thinks he should probably stop counting.

 

* * *

 

Two-to-five business days, Hank thinks that night, aimless and bitter. Two-to-fucking-five. Ten days total, counting the three already passed. And the weekend which, apparently, doesn’t even fucking count.

He’s got sparkling thirium in the fridge. Stupid—an impulse buy. He’d wanted to do something nice for Connor’s return. It’ll have gone bad by Friday though, so. There goes that fucking idea.

Another idea. The bottle of Black Lamb tucked behind a shelf in the back of the garage. _That_ , on the other hand. Well, that won’t go bad for years.

Shit. No. _No._ He shouldn’t. He’s going on three weeks clean. Used to be all the way up to six—and _Christ,_ Connor was _so_ disappointed when he broke. But.

But the weekend doesn’t even fucking _count._ And Connor’s not here, so, really. Who’s gonna know?

Under the table, Sumo snuffs and lays his chin right overtop Hank’s feet, like he could somehow keep them welded there. _Fuck,_ Hank didn’t even walk him today, fat lazy fuck that he is. Connor always reminds him when he forgets. Sometimes just does it himself, when he can tell Hank’s not up to it.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots and wonders when the hell he got so pathetic.

Sumo whines, cold wet nose sliding up under the leg of Hank’s pants until he’s forced to pull it back, pull himself up out of the stench of his own thoughts and reach down to scratch at his ears until he settles again.

“I know, boy,” he sighs. “I miss him too.”


	4. Chapter 4

The delivery arrives Tuesday. Thank the _fucking_ lord.

Hank feels the sentiment shared across the station – he’s been more than a little snappy these past couple days, and okay, fine, maybe Chris didn’t deserve that dig about his mother earlier, but _Jesus,_ can Hank really be blamed? He’s hardly slept a full night. At this point, he’s honestly astounded—and more than a little proud—he’s still got a full bottle of that secret Black Lamb. Connor’s always pretended not to know, but Hank’s seen him sneak off to check it once, making sure it’s all still there. Hell, it’ll probably be one of the first things the kid does when he gets home. He won’t say it, won’t want to embarrassed him over it, but Hank bets he’ll be proud too.

It’s been seven days. Not as long as it could have been, sure, but damn long enough. The longest they’ve been apart since—well. Ever, actually. Connor doesn’t exactly have a bustling social life, no matter how much Hank’s tried to encourage it. _I’m not gonna be around forever, Con._ It’s a little funny, in retrospect. Maybe Hank’s the one who actually needed the encouragement – he hasn’t done a damn thing but work and sit around the too-empty house for a week straight. He doesn’t know when it happened, when he got so used to having another person around all the time, but he sure as hell noticed the absence.

Still, he got through it. He didn’t fall apart. He kept the house clean, kept _himself_ clean. Hell, he even took Sumo for, like, four whole walks. Connor’s bound to be at least a little impressed. Hank’s not one to brag, and maybe for most people, such a pathetic accomplishment wouldn’t be worth bragging about anyway, but he’s looking forward to the end result. He’s looking forward to Connor, period.

All that to say, when the clinic finally calls Tuesday afternoon, Hank’s up and out of the station in about ten seconds flat. Niles catches up to him in the parking lot, because _of course_ he does, citing some bullshit about how “Connor may need a trusted source to interface him everything he’s missed while out of commission.” Hank bets the big idiot just misses him, but he keeps that thought to himself.

The drive teeters on awkward – Hank’s fingers tap impatiently at every red light, Niles straight-backed and perfectly still beside him. He comments on the weather and Niles responds with the predicted forecast for the next week. Hank shuts up after that. By the time they’re parked, it’s all he can do not to tear into a sprint up the walkway.

The same nurse who hosted his visit last week leads them in – this time to a private room off the main hall. Inside, Connor sits upright on a cot. Hank nearly runs to him—until he sees the back of his head is still open. He’s out of the brace. Wires and tubes dangle from his exposed ports, some channel fluids of varied shades of blue, others connect him to some beeping machinery that Hank can’t make heads or fucking tails of.

Connor doesn’t react when Hank moves in, stare distant and lifeless, but his LED pulses steady blue, and Hank—old fucking sap he is—takes all of one look at it and already feels better than he has all week.

It takes about five more minutes of the technician probing around with the machine for Connor to give a sudden full-body jolt. His eyelids flutter, his LED dips red.

“What’s happening?”

“Diagnostics,” the technician explains without looking up. “He’s checking for hardware and software integrity, then he’ll run a crash report for error logs and corrupted files.”

“Uh,” Hank says.

“He’s re-initializing,” Niles translates. “This could take a while.”

And does it _ever._

The technician leaves, comes back. Leaves again. Twenty minutes pass and nothing’s changed. The machine keeps beeping, Connor’s LED keeps spinning. Eventually, Hank has to step out for a leak. The hunt for the bathroom is absurdly but unsurprisingly difficult. Who woulda’ thought, in an all-android clinic? He ends up gone much longer than he’d hoped, but when he jogs back into the room, Connor hasn’t so much as moved.

The technician returns about five minutes later. She checks a few screens, her patience all but endless, and finally announces, “Almost there!” before she starts unplugging Connor and sliding his panels closed. That done, she returns to the machine. Only this time, she pauses over one of the screens. Says, “Hm.”

A single syllable, a loaded chamber.

“What?” Hank's pulled taut as a wire. “What is it?”

“It’s, um. Well, I’m not sure.”

Even Niles looks tense now. He starts as though to check the screen himself. “Is something the matter?”

He doesn't get far.

Connor rises from the cot, one fluid motion, and stares clean through him. “Good evening, Lieutenant Anderson. My name is Connor.”

 

* * *

 

Tue 05/25/2039   16:35:16

RK800 #313 248 317 – 52

BIOS 9.2 Revision 7302

Re-Initializing Systems...

He stands.

His GPS notifies him of the location. 3653 Westway Avenue, second floor. His diagnostics notify him of recently sustained trauma. And more recently, repairs. This information is unimportant. Standing before him is Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the Detroit Police Department. The mission flares bright behind his eyes. This is important.

The Lieutenant does not respond as expected to the greeting. His eyes narrow, then go wide. His pulse leaps, breaths shallow. This response is unwarranted – there is no immediate danger. Connor scans the room to be sure.

No windows. A draft from the vent in the upper left corner. Standing temperature of 70.13°F. Sounds of movement and voices from other rooms - multiple sources detected. A wall of CyberLife equipment – a portable assembly unit, refrigerated thirium. And next to it, the room's other two occupants, both androids – a VC200 and a—a—

Error. Unknown input. He does not recognize this model. It looks like—him. But. Different.

Connor blinks, feels his LED flicker. He is CyberLife’s most recent – he should recognize all models before him. He is malfunctioning.

A tick of software instability.

“Ha. Good one, Connor.” Connor returns his attention to the Lieutenant. “You really had me for a second.”

“Lieutenant,” the unknown model says. “I do not believe—”

“What do you mean?” Connor frames his expression to convey the sincerity of the question. More data required.

“I—You just—” The Lieutenant seems unable to finish the sentence. He looks at Connor, at the unknown model behind him, at the VC200. “Is he really…?”

Malfunctioning? Can the Lieutenant tell? It must be obvious, then. Perhaps due to the recent trauma. 

“Connor,” the unknown model says. “Please sit. You’ve sustained damage and you may still require repairs.”

Yes. He is malfunctioning. He requires repairs. But Connor does not sit. The unknown model takes a step forward and Connor feels himself back away. His legs hit the cot. He does not sit. He requires repairs. But. The unknown model is wearing his face. He requires repairs. He doesn’t—He doesn’t want—

Software instability.

He turns away, focuses his attention back on the familiar, the pressing. The mission.

“Lieutenant,” he says, and pauses to repress the strain in his vocal modulator before continuing. “Do you possess adequate methods of transportation? If not, I can order a taxi."

“A—A what?”

“A taxi,” he repeats. “My injuries have been repaired. We have already wasted enough time here. We should focus on the case."

“The case.” Not a question – a statement of disbelief. The Lieutenant is staring. The other androids are staring.

“The mission,” Connor says. He twitches, stills, pinned in place beneath their scrutiny. “CyberLife has issued me to assist you in the apprehension of deviant androids.”

The colour drops from the Lieutenant's face. He opens his mouth without sound.

“I believe I see the problem,” the unknown model says into the silence. “Connor, please reset the local time to 16:37:09, May 25, 2039.”

Connor assesses his internal clock. It is already set. It is already—2039. _2039._ But. That’s not—That can’t be—

“Your memory files are corrupt.”

He is malfunctioning—He is—

“You are no longer the property of CyberLife. Your mission is obsolete.”

Software instability crowds his vision like rain.

Obsolete. He is obsolete.

 

* * *

 

Hank stares while around him, the room sways. Each word out of Connor’s mouth hits like a physical thing – a slap in the face, again and again and again, no time in between to catch his breath.

Because Connor’s here—awake and in one piece and right fucking _here._ But he’s acting like—like he doesn’t even _know_ him.

His face is blank, perfectly impassive, poised in a careful tilt. He listens to Nile tell him his memories are absolutely fucked and he doesn’t so much as _blink._ The only thing that gives him away is the yellow of his LED.

He turns back to Hank. “Whose property am I?”

And Hank’s heart fucking _breaks._

“...W-What?”

“If I no longer belong to CyberLife,” Connor says simply, “then to whom do I belong?”

Another slap. “You don’t—”

“To him,” Niles cuts in.

Hank chokes back spit. Jesus  _fucking_ Christ.

“You belong to Hank Anderson,” Niles says, like he's reciting the fucking forecast again. Hank can't even protest - Niles just shoots a  _look,_ cool and pointed, and Hank's stunned to silence.

“I see,” Connor says.

“Indeed,” Niles says.

Hank, like an idiot, says nothing.

Niles actually _sighs._ “Excuse us,” he says to the VC200. To Connor, “Run another diagnostic for hardware integrity.”

Connor blinks, turns to Hank.

“Uh,” he fumbles. “Sure. Yeah. What he said.”

Connor’s eyes flutter, LED spinning out to yellow. Obedient, no questions asked. Hank’s stomach clenches at the sight. _You belong to Hank Anderson._ Fuck.

Niles is on him in an instant, hand tight around his arm to steer him backwards out of the room. Hank goes, numb beneath himself, and hears the door slam behind them.

“ _What,_ ” he wheezes, “the _fuck_ was that?”

“Careful, Lieutenant,” Niles says, now dragging him down the hall. “His hearing is very sensitive.”

Hank tears away. He needs—he doesn’t know, _space._ He needs to _think._ Christ. _Fucking_ Christ. He needs to know what the _fuck_ just happened, but he can’t even formulate the words to ask.

It seems he doesn’t have to. Niles holds his hands out in something like surrender. “I told him he belonged to you because I didn’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Overwhelm _him?_ ”

“Yes. His memory files are corrupt, Lieutenant. He’s confused. He may become volatile or even self-destruct if he becomes too agitated. We should refrain from presenting him with too much new input or contradictory data.”

Hank shakes his head. The words jangle around like loose cogs – all jargon, no sense. “So—what? You thought you’d calm him down by telling him he’s my goddamn _property?_ ”

Niles lowers his hands, eyes searching. The _'Ah,'_ is unspoken, but Hank hears it all the same. God, he's getting real fucking sick of being the only one not in on the joke.

He steels himself.

“Lieutenant,” Niles says slowly. “I don’t believe, in his current state, that Connor is aware of his own deviancy.”

Hank—stops. Just stops. Niles pulled the plug - the anger drains out in waves. It leaves him cold. Empty, almost sick.

There was a string of disappearances last January – androids all over Detroit snatched out of their own homes. They’d found a handful of them after a few weeks – WR400s, mostly. They’d been—experimented on. Tampered with. By some sick bastards looking for a cheap fuck, looking to sell in the underground rings still running despite the DPD’s best efforts. It was different than any other crime scene Hank had ever seen. No bruises, no gore. No stammering, terrified victims. No signs of resistance. And not a corpse in sight. Just a warehouse lined with androids – straight-backed and naked. _Factory reset,_ Connor had explained.  _As good as dead._  That's when Hank saw it - saw it for what it really was. Eyes dull, skin cold. Not so different from a human corpse after all.

His head smacks the wall as he falls back against it, a hand over his eyes. “His memory,” he manages. “You said it was—corrupted?”

“That’s my preliminary analysis.”

“So, it’s just _gone?_ Like… amnesia?”

“I would assume.”

 _Christ._ Hank swallows down the feeling of a hand tightening around his throat and forces out, “Is it—reversible?”

Niles hesitates, his own LED flashing in short bursts. For the first time maybe _ever,_ he looks—worried. Scared. Human. It’s only a second before he smooths it away, but it doesn’t hurt any less to watch.

“I’m not sure.”

 

* * *

 

His eye flutter open to a wash of error messages. Connor scans them before clearing them away with a blink. Behind him, the VC200 shifts, as though restless. As though deviant. An inquiry pops up in the corner of his interface, but—

_Your mission is obsolete._

He dismisses that too. Stares ahead and waits for the Lieutenant’s return.

Obsolete. He tests the weight of the word against his tongue, vocal modulator silent as he mouths it out. He is malfunctioning. He is the property of Lieutenant Hank Anderson. His mission is obsolete. These are things he knows.

While running diagnostics, he had slipped away, into the deepest parts of himself, searching. And he’d found it – the Garden. Only, it was... empty. A frozen lake, a howling wind. Not even footprints in the snow to hint at life.

Even now, in this unfamiliar room, in this unfamiliar time, the cold seems to cling to him. It shouldn’t be possible, but—

He is malfunctioning. He is the property of Lieutenant Hank Anderson. His mission is obsolete.

Amanda is gone.

These are things he knows.

The door slides open. The unknown model steps in first, followed hesitantly by Lieutenant Anderson. His gaze skitters across the room like it’s afraid to land.

“Gentlemen,” the VC200 greets. It looks over the wall of equipment, where Connor’s error logs still clutter the screens. “I think I’ve found the problem.”

The unknown model moves to join it, and Connor feels some of the cold lift when it leaves him faced with only the sight of the Lieutenant. Connor tunes them out as the androids begin to speak—aloud, likely for the Lieutenant’s sake. He already knows the problem, already saw his memory core spotlit in screaming red in his error logs, and now knows that it is preventing his ability to synch with his virtual memory storage. He is malfunctioning – it is nothing he didn’t already know.

Strangely enough, however, the Lieutenant doesn’t even seem to be listening to the other androids either. His eyes have finally landed on Connor. The tension slips away behind them and he steps in, voice low.

“Hey.”

The cold lifts further still, the proximity like a gentle fire, coaxing and warm. His software instability flares like the flames themselves, but Connor ignores it.

“Hello,” he hears himself say.

The Lieutenant’s lips twitch. “Listen, uh. It’s gonna be okay,” he says. “Whatever this is, we’ll—I’ll figure it out, okay?”

Connor gauges the appropriate reaction and settles for a nod. Of course it will _be okay._ His memories could theoretically be uploaded to any functioning RK unit, and CyberLife can always issue a replacement if he proves irreparable.

But the Lieutenant lays a hand on his arm. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

The flames jump again.

Connor—isn’t sure how to respond. His vocal modulator stutters but is unable to produce sound. Like when he mouthed the word. Obsolete. _Your mission is obsolete._

He replays the Lieutenant’s words instead, louder.  _I’m not going to let anything happen to you._

But.

_Your mission is obsolete._

Perhaps. Perhaps he has a new mission, he thinks. Something he’s forgotten, some reason why the Lieutenant would still want him. Perhaps he’s _not_ irreparable. Perhaps, he lets himself think recklessly, perhaps even if he _is_ irreparable _,_ the Lieutenant won’t mind. The mission is obsolete. But. Perhaps _he_ isn’t.

The Lieutenant smiles – a small thing that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. But he hasn’t removed his hand, and for now, the warmth of it there is all the confirmation Connor needs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shouts from the rooftop* I DON'T KNOW HOW ROBOTS WORK AND I MADE EVERYTHING IN THIS CHAPTER UP PLEASE DON'T CALL ME OUT

“It’s his memory core.”

Niles catches him in the reception area, back from _wherever_ he’d run off to like the fucking coward he is. It was a _blink and you’ll miss it_ disappearance – there in Connor’s sickbay one minute, gone the next. He hadn’t even stayed around long enough to help Hank decipher the technical jargon the special team they’d called in had been spit-balling around. Hank had sat though the whole thing in stunned silence, an eerily unperturbed Connor at his side while the _brightest minds in the field_ kept repeating things like _model incompatibility_ and _unknown risk_ and _catastrophic damage._

Hank looks at him now, through blood-shot, exhausted eyes. That old anger rears it’s head, somewhere in the pit of his stomach. It wouldn’t have changed anything, he knows, having Niles there to translate in layman’s detail what Hank was able to gather the gist of alone. They’re fucked. Connor’s fucked. Hank was too slow and too fat and too fucking stupid to protect him, and now Connor’s paying the price.

“Memory core, yeah,” he spits. He’d heard that term a few times from the technicians as well – somewhere between all the death sentencing.

He elbows past—headed _where,_ fuck, he doesn’t know. He can hardly even stand to be around Connor right now – all blank stare and ardent promises that _I can still be of use to you, Lieutenant. The loss of my memories will not hinder my workplace performance._

A hand clamps down on his shoulder – Niles, bodily turning him back around until they’re eye-to-eye. “You misunderstood, Lieutenant. This is a good thing.”

“A _good_ thing?” His hands ball into fists. “You motherf—”

“His memory core is replaceable,” Niles silences him with a clipped tone, and Hank’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth ache.

“His memories,” Niles says, “are recoverable.”

 

* * *

 

All things considered, Niles takes the breakdown pretty well.

He hangs around Hank like he’s afraid to touch, least he catch these petty little _emotions_ himself. It’s easily the most uncomfortable the stoic bastard’s ever looked – lips pressed tight in near-disgust, eyes scrunched up like he’s rather be anywhere else on the planet. It’d probably be a little funny, if Hank could get a good look between the blur of tears and the way he keeps having to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.

Niles produces a box of tissues from some corner of the room, hands it over without even looking. Ha. Fucker’s embarrassed.

Hank blows his nose loudly and without shame. _Crying can be very cathartic,_ his grief therapist had told him once. _It’s perfectly healthy to cry, even over good news. Often, it’s the release of something deeper we hadn’t even known about._ He stuffs the snotty tissue in his pocket and Niles fails to hide a cringe. Cathartic indeed.

“So,” he finally manages, a final sniffle to punctuate the word. “So, he’s going to get it back? All of it?”

“Until his last upload, which was about twenty minutes before the raid,” Niles says, clearly relieved to be back on track.

Hank nods. That’s fine. _Good,_ even. The kid got shot in the fucking head, after all. He won’t exactly be missing out if he forgets that part.

“His virtual memories are stored in his AI’s repository. They’re currently inaccessible, but perfectly safe. The damage to his memory core is preventing him from being able to synch his internal storage with his virtual storage. He remembers the very base of his programming – the first order he ever received. And nothing else since then.”

“But we replace this, uh, core, and that’s it? It’s fixed?” Hank asks. “Connor goes back to normal?”

Niles nods. “Connor goes back to normal.”

 

* * *

 

When Cole died, the androids on staff gave him five minutes. Just five.

“To say goodbye,” they’d told him.

_Goodbye to who?_ he’d wondered through the white noise of grief. _Cole’s already dead._

Five minutes, to sit with his son’s body before it would be wheeled off to harvest the organs. Five minutes, to hold that precious, bloodied hand—the best damn thing in his whole life—in his own trembling grasp, feel the warmth leach from the skin as though carrying with it Cole’s very life.

“Sir, please do not contaminate the corpse,” the android posing as the nurse had said. A VC100. Hank would never forget its face, never forget the way the plastic and veneer of sympathy splintered like wood beneath his fists.

Five minutes. In the end, he only got three. They kicked him out after that.

Connor’s not dead. Hank didn’t even punch anybody. And yet for some reason, the staff seem just as eager to get him the hell out of there.

Niles finishes talking things over with the technicians, LED spinning yellow with the silent conversation that Hank is apparently still not important enough to be in on, and suddenly, the glass door to the reception area slides open. In strolls Connor, all placid smile and easy gait.

“Hello, Lieutenant. Are you ready to go?”

“Uh,” Hank manages. “What?”

“I have been informed by the androids acting as my technicians that I am repaired and fully functional.”

“You—” He stares, feels his chest swell with something halfway between reverie and relief. “You are? You—remember?”

Connor’s smile does a strange sort of stutter, but it’s Niles who answers. “Not yet. I’ve placed an order for a new memory core.”

“Placed an _order?_ ” Just like that, the feeling saps away. Fuck, not _this_ again.

Niles frowns, as though this outburst is entirely unearned. “Yes, Lieutenant. RK models are extremely rare, and in fact haven’t been in production since November of last year.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ ” Niles stresses, like Hank really might just be the biggest dumbass on earth, “his memory core must first be _built_ before it can be shipped to us.”

“As I’ve said, Lieutenant,” Connor interjects. “I can still be of use to you until then.”

“That’s not—” Hank sighs, hangs his head with hands fisted in his hair, and mutters, “Fuckin’ Christ, kid. That’s not the point.”

One of the technicians steps in. “Would you like to be contacted by email or by phone when the order arrives?”

“Uh, yeah, email’s fine.” Hank brushes her off. To Niles, “How long’s this thing supposed to take?”

“By estimate, at least a week.”

_Another_ week. Of course. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

Connor shifts his feet, eyes tight at Hank’s distress. “I will not let this temporary malfunction prevent me from fulfilling my purpose, Lieutenant. I need only to be directed.”

God, and he sounds so fucking _sincere_ too. That’s almost the worst part – there’s none of the old banter he used to throw around, that playful, teasing, _human_ way he’d drag Hank from one crime scene to the next. It used to drive him _nuts,_ back in their deviant-hunting days – Connor, hauling him, piss drunk, to a strip club in the middle of the night, only to let the culprits get away. Connor, so sure that deviants were nothing but scrap metal and misfiring code, so frustrated at their constant elusion of him, only to hesitate to pull the trigger on them time and time again.

Hank would give anything to see that again. That playful wit, that frustration, that uncertainty and hesitation. _Anything_ but the dead-eyed stare of a machine needing _only to be directed._

The technician from earlier closes in on him again, clipboard and pen in hand. Paper seems to be something of a rarity in a clinic where everyone can sign their consent wavers in their heads, but what she hands him, in freshly printed ink, is a discharge form.

“We’ll let you know when the order arrives. Until then, RK800 is free to go.”

Hank accepts the form, but otherwise makes no move to sign it. “Free to go? And what, just—just live in limbo? Until further notice?”

She looks at Connor, then Hank, smile painted and eyes impassive. She sounds like she’s reading for a script when she says, “The hospital’s policy is only to shut down and store a malfunctioning android if we believe that in releasing them, they may be a hazard to themself or others. Do you believe this android may be a hazard to himself or others?”

“Lieutenant,” Niles says. “It in fact might be best to keep—”

“No,” Hanks snaps. “I’ll bring him home. He’ll be fine with me.” _Shut down and store?_ There’s no fucking way Hank’s letting them do that to Connor. He’s not some fucking—faulty merchandise. He’s just—sick.

That’s all it is. He’s still Connor. He’s just sick.

 

* * *

 

Connor has always been naturally curious. Or, as _naturally_ anything as an android could be. As an investigative prototype, he was designed to be. That was another thing Hank had had to learn to get used to real fast during those first few days on the job together, and a defense he became well-acquainted with receiving every time he snapped at Connor to _Cut it out with the fuckin’ questions already, would ya?_

With everything that’s happened, Hank had thought he’d be rife with those same type of questions now. But if anything, Connor’s even more subdued than he was in the hospital – in the passenger seat of the car, eyes flickering while the scenery passes. He hasn’t spoken a word since they left.

The three of them drive together – Hank behind the wheel, Niles with the perfect coif of his hair nearly brushing the ceiling in the backseat. Hank tries to keep his eyes on the road, but it’s hard not to let them slip over every few minutes, as though checking Connor’s even still there. He keeps waiting for Connor to see an android in civilian clothes or sitting on the front of a bus, or spot one of the ads for android-accommodating housing that have been popping up more and more since the revolution. He keeps waiting for that moment of realization, for the eruption of questions after. He keeps _waiting,_ but it never comes.

Still. It’s. _Almost_ nice. Just having him there. Sure beats not having him at all, anway. And if he doesn’t look too long, doesn’t think too hard, Hank could almost pretend everything’s normal – if not for the expressionless eyes and monotonous voice Connor turns on him when he senses Hank watching.

“Is everything alright, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah,” Hank lies. “Everything’s fine.”

 

* * *

 

They’re home not long after. Connor exits the car only when Hank does, then stands in the driveway with eyes narrowed in that way Hank’s come to know means he’s _analyzing._ Hank wonders what he sees, if any of it looks familiar, means anything to him. But if it does, Connor doesn’t show it. He turns around, unfazed, only for his eyes to narrow even further as Niles exits the car.

“Lieutenant, do you own this android as well?”

“Uh,” Hank says, at the same time that Niles says, “No. I am assigned to another detective at the DPD.”

Connor tilts his head. “Is there a reason why it’s here?”

_It._ Jesus Christ. Hank swallows down a sick feeling and offers, weakly, “Just, uh. Making sure you’re okay. I’m not too good with tech stuff, so he’s—uh, _it’s_ just sticking around to make sure you’re all good.”

Connor nods, but still doesn’t seem sated. He holds out a hand to Niles, skin retracting to cool white. “You can return to your previous duties. You will be informed if you are required.”

Something dances across Niles’s face – a hesitation, a hurt. But the cold mask is back in place an instant later, and he takes the proffered hand like they’re trading goddamn cell numbers.

“I’ll inform everyone at the station of Connor’s condition, then see what I can do about speeding up the delivery of the new memory core.” He drops Connor’s grasp and all but looks like he wants to wipe his hand clean. “Please contact me if there are any changes.” This, he says directly to Hank, like he doesn’t trust Connor to so much as try.

And just like that, he’s off – a furious military march to put as much distance as possible between him and the brother who no longer considers him alive. Androids might be able to pick up a micro-expression from a mile away, but even they have their tells. Hank can’t help but feel a little sorry for the cold-hearted bastard.

Then, Connor lowers his own hand, haltingly, face briefly contorted as though almost in pain, and all thoughts of Niles evaporate.

“Connor?”

Whatever it is, he jolts out of it with a start. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

Still, “You okay?”

“My systems seemed to—freeze, just now,” Connor explains. “But I’m sure it’s just an aftereffect of the reboot.”

Hank wavers – half trusting, instinctively, while the other half remembers all to clearly the electric stutter of fried wires and the sharp tang of thirium, a metal skull cracked open as delicate as glass across a warehouse floor. His hand finds Connor’s shoulders and steer him close, like he could pull him out of the memory and into the safety of the present. Connor goes pliant under the touch, lips quirked and eyes low.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” he says. “Everything’s fine.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do u ever die

The other android leaves. Connor watches it go, its steps quick with enviable purpose. An RK900, their brief interface has at last informed him – the next model up from his own, more advanced in every way. The identification did little to clear the misfiring sensations its presence seemed to pull like loose threads from the patchwork of Connor’s code – the uneasy familiarity of his own face staring back at him, eyes piercing blue and utterly inscrutable. Watching it walk away, Connor feels a fraction of this instability settle.

Because the interface also alerted him to another fact. The RK900 is a deviant.

It is not the first Connor has come into contact with today. They crowded the repair facility as both employees and clients, littered the maze of streets as the Lieutenant drove—targeted in advertisements and window shops, shown strolling the markets of Greektown, smiling with hands intertwined on park benches Everywhere he looked in this strange new time, deviants occupied human spaces, publicly, proudly.

Connor saw it all, and said nothing. Because. What was there to say? None of it matters. His mission is obsolete.

The Garden is empty, Amanda is gone, and deviants haunt Detroit in great and terrible numbers. Connor may be an anachronism, but he isn’t oblivious. The Lieutenant displays obvious signs of distress and concern over his condition – continuously checking Connor’s status, poised at any moment to provide reassurance and explanation. He thinks him useless, without the memories to account for the time since his activation. He thinks him unable to comprehend how much the world in that time. He thinks him _lost_. And perhaps he is, but Connor can at the very least pretend not to be.

So, he says nothing.

“So,” the Lieutenant says, prompting the return of Connor’s gaze. He stands at the base of the porch steps and fidgets with the house keys in hand. “I guess we should head in. You probably ought to, uh, rest up for a bit, right?”

Connor does not need to rest up. His thirium levels are at 98%. His battery is at 100%. He could function autonomously for another 20 months without needing to recharge. “Yes,” he says anyway, if only to watch the creases of worry around the Lieutenant’s eyes soften.

 

* * *

 

The inside of the house is. Strange.

The sun hangs low in the sky with the dragging hours, rays that filter through slatted blinds and catch the dust that swirls up from the carpet beneath the scampering feet of a large Saint Bernard who comes barrelling to greet them at the door. The Lieutenant drops into a crouch to scratch behind its ears, and Connor remains straight-backed, scanning.

And it’s s _trange._

He does not know what he had been expecting, but feels its absence all the same. There is no spark of memory, no déjà vu familiarity just beyond his grasp or instinct known not to mind but to body, no ghosts of himself or any past life once led strung between the walls. Of course there isn’t. These are concepts born of humanity.

He is a damaged machine, a computer wiped clean, and the house is a stranger. He has no opinion on it other than that, perhaps, he wishes he did.

He asks the Lieutenant if he may examine the area further.

“Yeah,” the Lieutenant says. He waves a hand. “Do whatever you need to, uh—get re-acquainted, or whatever.” The hand pauses, struck still with another thought. “Just—don’t put anything in your mouth, yeah? Please.”

He does as instructed, at least while in the Lieutenant’s line of sight. The house is quiet, unassuming. It’s cleanliness—surprises him, in its contrast to the Lieutenant’s personal state of appearance, but closer analysis points to another presence being responsible for this. His own, he assumes—and upon further inspection, confirms. Among the Lieutenant’s personal belongings, several odd additions give him pause. Expired thirium in the fridge. Lubricant and microfiber cloths in the bathroom next to a comb for synthetic hair. In the hallway, and entire closet appears dedicated to clothing in his size. Work attire, casual attire, bizarrely, even sleep attire.

A side-table drawer in the living room holds an RK800 manual—printed archaic, deeply creased from repeated folds, margins lined with penned additions. He finds receipts—records of updates and repairs, and beneath them. He finds a wallet—a police badge and government-issued identification—name, model, registration. Address. 115 Michigan Drive.

Connor looks up from his investigation, gaze hard, voice even, and asks, “I live here?”

The Lieutenant, who has been doing an increasingly poor job of trying not to hover, nods.

“With you?” Connor asks, unnecessarily. The house belongs to the Lieutenant, after all, but he quite suddenly needs to be certain.

“And Sumo.” The Lieutenant gestures to the Saint Bernard, smiles like this somehow lessens the blow of the revelation.

“For what purpose?”

“What—What do you mean?”

“Do I assist you, in your living arrangements as well as in your work? Do I perform household duties?” It seems an odd use of his abilities, but it’s hardly beyond him.

The Lieutenant, bizarrely, seems to take offense “No! I mean—you don’t—you’re not—You do _some_ stuff, yeah, but it’s not, uh, _expected_ of you.”

This explanation is entirely nonsensical. The Lieutenant currently believes him unable to perform adequately due to his malfunctions, and thus it is understandable that Connor has been barred from performing his duties at the DPD until fully repaired. But if he was capable of performing them before, why does he spend so much time here?  Here, where he is nothing but a waste of resources and space.

There must be something. Some reason. Some functions he fulfills. “What _is_ expected of me?” he asks. “What is my—” _Your mission is obsolete._

“You just—You look after yourself,” the Lieutenant says, gruff. “That’s your—That’s what you do.”

Directions unclear. Connor does not get tired, he does not get sick. He does not require rest or socialization or mental stimulation. He does require any of the things traditionally associated with being _looked after._ He runs a search anyway, through the blank space of memory and then the empty air beyond, burning like sharp wind against skin. Up come the self-set protocols—conditional functions his past self burned into his own system, changed his very code to accommodate, reminders laid like traps in the wires of his code.

He is not surprised at what he finds.

“I have your educational and medical records saved on file. I have 139 self-set alarms saved under my secondary functions, largely concerning your health and care, including reminders to wake, feed, and physically and socially stimulate you. I have shortcuts to your medical, educational, and phycological history. I also appear to have 27 recipes saved with additions made tailored to your tastes,” Connor recites, perfectly blank. “Lieutenant, are you certain my function is not to assist in your personal as well as professional life?”

 

* * *

 

Hank’s mouth opens and closes without sound, reeling from the sudden influx of information, and feels a flush creep up his neck. Connor just stares, head tilted a fraction—he’s _scanning_ him _,_ the bastard.

“I’ve offended you,” he surmises. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t capable of managing your own—”

“No, no, it’s not—” He shakes his head, makes a noise, caught halfway between frustration and embarrassment. 139 alarms. _Jesus Christ._ “I’m not _offended,_ fuck. It’s just—”

It’s just that those are _Connor’s_ thoughts—his _private_ thoughts—on record inside him only by virtue of his race, being read out loud like some kind of damn public service announcement. Sure he’s touched to hear how much Connor cares—and yeah, _fine,_ maybe a little embarrassed—but he’s got no business knowing those things in the first place. It seems wrong, somehow, standing here and letting this—this—this _other_ Connor divulge the things Connor himself never would—the way he thinks, the way he functions, they way he feels—without even _knowing_ it. It feels like a breach of trust.

“I don’t need to know how many— _alarms_ you have, or whatever,” he manages lamely. “There’s just—some things you should keep to yourself, alright?” It’s a bullshit excuse if he’s ever heard one, but what the hell is he supposed to say? _This is an invasion of privacy, and oh, by the way, privacy is something you have now, because you’re a deviant and alive and always have been, but I’m not supposed to tell you that or else you might explode._ Yeah, Hank’s not sure how well that one would blow over either.

Connor’s eyes narrow, lips tight. Confusion gives way to discontent. He’s almost—pouting. How anyone could mistake him for an unfeeling machine is beyond Hank, honestly—he looks like a kid that just got reprimanded for sneaking a biscuit before dinner. Hank sighs, internal crisis deflating, the cold wash of guilt coming in hot on its heels. He swallows it down. Not the time for self-destructive tendencies, Anderson. Really not the time.

“Look,” he says, and sits down hard on the sofa. “I—I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I know you’re just trying to figure shit out. I am too.”

Connor doesn’t even look like he knows what to do with an apology. He eyes Hank without movement, LED spinning, and Hank sinks under the gaze and further out of his depth by the second. Seizing blind by the sudden need to _do something_ —anything—Hank shoots out a hand like a lifeline.

“Let’s just—” _pretend this is normal, pretend this is okay,_ “—figure this out together, okay? We’ll get through it together. You and me.”

Connor hesitates, LED spinning yellow for a split second. For a second, Hank thinks he isn’t going to bite, but Connor readjusts, a whir and a click and the straighten of his spine. “Of course, Lieutenant.” He takes the hand, grasp cool and smile mechanically fluid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time flies when you're not posting chapters AMIRIGHT?
> 
> In all seriousness, apologies for the delay with this one guys. Idk what happened with this chapter but she just REALLY did not want to be written.! Finals are right around the corner for me, so I hope to be able to dive back in to my writing habits in the next few weeks! <3


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